


Pieces On the Chessboard

by Pillow_Bee



Category: SPECTRE (2015), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Bond is the crown prince, M/M, Mpreg, Pining (eventually), Q is a Holmes, Q is not your typical virginal omega HUZZAH!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 19:10:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5303345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pillow_Bee/pseuds/Pillow_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond has been betrayed before and does not quite believe in love anymore.</p>
<p>Q is smart and comes from a family that values intelligence over emotions.</p>
<p>M and Mycroft put these traits of theirs to good use.</p>
<p>Marriage, after all, is nothing but a simple contract to both Bond and Q.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces On the Chessboard

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> Not really dubious consent, but both Bond and Q were drugged, although both of them knew what was expected of them.
> 
> Q's not underage in this; Bond only thought he was.

0.

To be fair, Bond was drunk even before the ceremony started.

Everything was a blur – but the sharp smell of incense offended him long enough for him to actually _pay attention_ for a moment or two. This was when he saw his husband-to-be, his omega.

What a skinny little thing, he thought. Bond could snap his wrist easily if he wanted to – but _oh god,_ look at that skin. The white noise and the priest’s drawling voice died off just then, and all Bond could focus on were that pale skin and those long fingers and – through his drunken state of mind, Bond still managed to notice those defiant dark curls and clever, clever eyes staring back at him—

Assessing him, the same way he was assessing the other person.

Bond swallowed, and willed the priest to go faster.

 

1.

A part of him was annoyed that the attendants had decided to get in his way. When the priest had _finally_ finished, Bond had wasted no time in claiming his husband’s lips. The kiss was soft and languid, and the small sigh that it had elicited from his husband – his _husband!_ – had stirred something hot and possessive inside him.

He absolutely blamed everything on the alcohol.

“You’re a bit drunk, aren’t you?” were the first words he’d heard, and his omega sounded amused more than anything.

“You have no idea,” he’d managed to reply, and that was when the attendants began to pull them aside and away from each other. He groaned, but allowed them to usher him up the stairs and through some corridors. They took him to a spacious room and started to fuss over him.

Frankly Bond really did not care what people wanted to do to him at this point – he registered someone applying perfume on his neck and wrists; someone else was stirring a concoction noisily into a small ceramic cup in one corner.

“Drink this, sir.”

Bond didn’t bother asking what it was – he swallowed everything in one go and barely noticed how bitter the liquid was.

Someone was burning the same suffocating incense again, and Bond would have upended some unfortunate furniture had he not been ushered towards another door at the other end of the room.

His mind was starting to spin and stop at the same time, and he had just enough wits about him to ask, “What the bloody hell was in that drink?”

The attendant did not reply, opening the door for him instead.

“Good evening, sir.”

 

2.

His omega probably had green eyes – Bond could not tell at the moment, because it was dark, with only several candles lighting up the room.

Also, his husband’s eyes were so dilated, they were almost completely black – and Bond’s finally figured out that whatever that concoction was, it probably contained some sort of drug and – _aphrodisiacs?_ – and that his husband had been made to drink it as well prior to entering this room.

“You’re painted,” Bond murmured against the shell of one ear, staring really hard at the dark red line that ran down his husband’s neck, disappearing beneath his wedding robes. He wanted to find out where that line led to.

“Hmm, it’s henna,” the other man grunted as Bond kissed and sucked at the pale neck. His hands, meanwhile, were busy undressing the lithe creature in front of him, slowly exposing inches of pale skin and more of those mesmerizing dark red lines. Those lines run down one arm, some branching off to form leaves and flowers, some curving into abstract patterns down the back of his omega’s hand.

“You’re _painted_ ,” Bond said again, his brain apparently incapable of anything smarter than this. “What’s your name?”

His husband started to reply, but then Bond began to pull down his breeches in one swift motion – _because there were flowers and leaves and patterns even on his goddamn hips, goddamn_ – that it threw his omega off-balance and they both fell into bed— “Fuck, oh _fuck,_ it’s Q, just call me Q—”

Bond clumsily traced his finger against one thigh:

_Q._

 

3.

His skull felt like it was about to burst open, and the sunlight wasn’t helping.

Bond rolled over, groaning, only to find someone else lying next to him. He cracked open one eye.

This other person had his back to Bond – and…was that _blood?_ Bond frowned as he opened both eyes to inspect the red lines running across the smooth back. He reached out and touched one fading pattern (a leaf?) on the left shoulder blade, and was glad to find that it wasn’t blood but some sort of… paint?

His attention was immediately shifted from the body paint when the other person stirred in his sleep. Bond slowly sat up and began to truly look.

And then he _remembered._

This was his husband. His omega. His wedding ceremony was last night.

His headache and the fact that he could only remember snatches of events from last night told him that he had probably been given something to take off the edge last night. Bond pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in deeply before slowly exhaling. He glanced once again at the sleeping form next to him.

His omega was barely a man. Not precisely in his teen years, but surely still young.

How old did M say this kid was? Bond saw a fleeting image of M and Mycroft Holmes from the night before, and he remembered how absolutely solemn and yet absolutely _pleased_ those two looked as they witnessed the ceremony.

With a sigh, Bond slowly reclined against his pillows and closed his eyes.

Perhaps if he slept, everything will go back to the way it was before.

 

4.

He dreamt of long train rides, and of sensuous red lips, smirking at him.

Of cold, unforgiving water, and of drowning.

 

5.

Or perhaps not.

 

6.

Bond next woke up to the feeling of someone poking at his shoulder. He opened his eyes slowly and was glad to find that his headache wasn’t as bad as it was before.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

The voice, more than anything else, made Bond turn and look – because his omega’s voice is soothing, like calm water, and Bond wondered for a moment if the drugs from last night were still in his system.

His husband was thin and pale, with unruly dark curls and a pair of green eyes that were blinking owlishly back at him.

“I can’t actually see. Do you know where they kept my glasses?”

Bond didn’t know what he’d expected, but certainly not this…this confident young man, sitting in bed naked except for the blankets pooling around his waist, asking for his _glasses_ , of all things.

“I don’t, actually,” Bond said at length, sitting up slowly. “What’s your name?”

Bond had a feeling he’d asked this question before, but he couldn’t recall any names – try as he might, all that came to his mind was the image of him tracing random letters all over pale, smooth skin.

His omega tilted his head to one side. “Lysander Quentin Siger Holmes. And you're James Bond.”

Bond arched his eyebrows, decided to ignore that last part. “That’s…a mouthful. Don’t they call you Prince Q or something? Back home?”

“Oh yes, just Q is fine,” said Q happily. “Mother would be so upset if she knew people are calling me just by the first letter of my middle name. I was named after her father, you see. God rest their souls.”

The ease with which Q was carrying this conversation was really starting to impress Bond. “You’re awfully chatty first thing in the morning,” he observed.

“I’m not, usually,” Q admitted, now frowning a little. “I think it’s that thing they made me drink last night. I’m still a bit dizzy, and not being able to see clearly is just making things worse.”

His omega was really, _actually_ starting to pout. This made him look impossibly younger.

“How old are you?” Bond asked hesitantly. His query was met with a sharp glare.

“Twenty-four, why?”

Bond tried his hardest not to gape, and managed, just barely. “Well, you don’t look like you’re twenty-four.”

“And you don’t look like much, either, _because I can’t see.”_

“All right, all right,” Bond groaned as he got out of bed. Even if Q said he was twenty-four, he was certainly starting to act like a petulant child.

Bond hadn’t had the chance to properly assess the room he was in last night, so now he was randomly opening and closing the closet doors. He finally found the right one and pulled out a towel for himself and another for Q.

"Was last night your first time?" Bond asked, wrapping the towel around his waist. He turned back and tossed the other towel to Q.

“Thank you.” He was still blinking rather rapidly at Bond, and Bond suspected that Q was trying to figure out what Bond looked like. "Well, was it _your_ first time?"

Bond smirked at this. "No."

From where he stood, Bond could finally see the designs on Q’s skin. The red lines covered his neck and shoulders, with flowers and leaves decorating his pectorals and his abdomen, as well as his arms, right down to the tips of his long fingers.

Bond remembered seeing abstract curves and lines on parts of Q that were currently hidden underneath the blankets.

"Then you can't really expect last night to be _my_ first time, either, can you?" Q returned.

Bossy _and_ mouthy. He turned away from his omega instead of replying, just to stop himself from thinking more about last night. Now he assessed the two doors on the opposite wall. “Did you come through here?” he asked, pointing at the door on the left.

“I think so?”

“Well, aren’t you going to get up?” Bond asked when Q made no move to get out of bed.

Bossy, mouthy -- spoiled as well?

“Um.”

Q had been bursting with nothing but confidence up until now – now, he simply clutched the towel to his chest and averted his eyes. His cheeks were slowly turning pink.

“Actually, I’d rather, ah, not get up. Not before the…proper equipment? Arrives?”

Bond made no move to hide his confusion. His head was slowly started to throb again. “What on _earth_ are you talking about?”

From across the room, Q glared pointedly at him. His blush had intensified, but his voice was steady nonetheless. “You knotted me last night,” he said flatly, “and I am under strict orders not to move until it’s all been – _secured_ – inside me.”

That rendered Bond speechless for a moment.

“Ah.”

“Yes, _ah,_ indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes here:
> 
> Bond's next in line to the throne, once his great aunt, Queen M, abdicated or died. Q was the youngest prince in the Holmes family.
> 
> Bond was 36 in this.
> 
> \---
> 
> You know how you sometimes tend to write an entire fic in your head when you're supposed to be sleeping because you have to be at the speech & hearing clinic the very first thing next morning?
> 
> Yeah, this was that fic. I figured -- you know, instead of requesting someone else to write it, why not write it myself, eh? _Ayyyyy~_
> 
> I will hurt both Bond and Q in this and I will hurt them _good_. :D


End file.
